Writer's Island Prompt #2: Stowaway

STOWED AWAY IN A DREAM

My dad, dead these last four years,
came by the house today.
He found me in the back yard
digging dandelions and
joined me in the cool shade.
I shifted my chair until I found
a tiny corner of late afternoon sun.
We listened to old show tunes,
something from South Pacific,
on his ancient pocket transistor radio,
the air heavy with the rich smell
of fresh-mowed grass and wayward lavender.

A shiny jet soared high above,
tiny glittering silver blip,
distant motor buzzing faintly
like a fat robotic summer bee.

I offered iced tea
with translucent slices
of glossy yellow lemons
but he shook his head no.
Memories joined us
as we sat side by side
holding hands, easy and peaceful
the way I'd always hoped we'd be.
I dozed in the heat and
when I woke up he was gone.
It was sweet and sad
and I didn't want to let go.